


Drabble: Pretty Women

by thisbirdhadwine



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Early Beatles, Friendship, Other, what's better than this? just guys bein dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbirdhadwine/pseuds/thisbirdhadwine
Summary: Do not leave four bored young men with unclear directions in a room full of makeup.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	Drabble: Pretty Women

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this photo and story about the Beatles (https://this-bird-had-wine.tumblr.com/post/617238685653614592/ourladylennon-femininehygieneproducts). When the Beatles were banned from doing their own makeup in 1963. 
> 
> I laughed my ass of writing this, enjoy the friendship drabble and inaccurate description of how to apply makeup.

“Oh, good grief,” Brian exclaimed in his customary nasally voice. 

Ringo lifted his head from his hand, lazily drawing on a cigarette. “What's the matter, Eppy?,” he asked. 

Sighing, Brian messed with the curl falling over his eyes. He hung up the phone. “Glenn from the union said the make up girls from Studio Two are on strike, they won’t be coming today,” he said. 

“Fuck yeah, women’s lib!” John shouted from the corner of the room, raising a fist in the air. He attempted to start a “women’s lib” chant which George quietly joined with a tepid smile. Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and groaned. 

“I don’t suppose any of you know a makeup artist we can call and get here in the next thirty minutes?” Brian said. 

“Maureen would be gear, but she can’t do all four that quick,” Ringo said. 

“I know a guy from Holyoke, but he doesn’t like to be paid in goods, only services,” John said with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. Paul looked at him from the armchair and shook his head with a smile. Brian slumped in on himself in exasperation. 

“Serious options only, please, or I will literally throw myself out this window,” Brian said. 

“Why do we need to do the makeup in the first place?” John whined. He got up out of his chair and started fiddling with the brushes stuck ungracefully in a can on the bureau. “It’s a bit silly, y’know, four grown men galavantin’ on stage with makeup on.” He plucked a brush and spastically waved it around Paul’s face, with Paul playfully swatting it away. 

“You’re not grown,” Brian said with a pointed look, “you’ve still got acne and the cameras will wash you right out.” 

“Maybe I like lookin’ like a ghoul,” George cut in, grinning, “helps my ‘rugged’ image.” His charming Irish drawal elongated the “u” in “rugged.” 

“Well, you can look rough every other day of the week, just not today,” Brian nagged. He was starting to bite his nails and shift nervously from foot to foot. 

“Aye, why don’t we just do it ourselves?” Paul asked with a shrug. “Might not look great, but at least it’ll get done.” After insistent prodding from John, he finally snatched the brush out of his hands. He stood up and walked to Brian with his hands behind his back. John rolled his eyes and mouthed “teachers pet” at Ringo, who chuckled. 

Paul sidled up to Brian. “Look, it’ll only take a minute, and we can’t screw up that bad,” he said. He placed a hand on Brian’s shoulder and he finally looked up, his mouth drawn to the side as he thought. Paul lowered his head and looked up at Brian. “Don’t worry,” he said. 

Brian sighed and nodded. “You boys up for it?” he asked over Paul’s shoulder. 

There was a rumble of agreement and the remaining three got out of their chairs to approach the mirrors. Brian let his shoulders drop and Paul left, shooting him one last smile. Neil tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Eppy, the stage manager needs you,” he said. 

“Alright,” Brian said, clapping him on the shoulder. He looked endearingly at the others. “Be done when I get back,” he said with a smile. 

“Sure, Bri,” John cried back. The door clicked shut behind them and John rolled his eyes and faced the mirror. 

“I wish he’d just fucking swear sometime,” he said, rubbing liquid foundation on. He put on his best worried nasal: “‘Good grief, aw gee wizz.’ One of these days, I’ll step on his foot, see where that gets ‘im.” 

Paul chuckled as he ran a powder puff over his face. “He’s worse than the beefeaters, honestly, you couldn’t get him to squeak out a ‘damn’ even if you were shaggin’ his mum.” 

“Yeah, he offered me a cup a’ tea when I had her,” George said to uproarious laughter. The routine was fairly simple; cover-up, concealer around the rough bits, then powder it off with a shine. The only inconvenience was when Ringo applied a great smattering of powder right to the puff and it went everywhere when he slapped it against his face. A fit of coughing and laughing fell upon them all, subsiding as the dust settled. Each was checking his reflection thoughtfully in the mirror, save John. He was rifling through the silver fold-up makeup case in front of him. 

George looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “Better not touch it, son, the gells will strike again and Brian will prolly shove it up your ass to make a point,” he said. 

John kicked him lightly and started twisting the little cap off of an oblong plastic thing. He did a double take when a brush emerged, smothered in dramatic black mascara. He looked at the others, then back at the brush. He glanced once more at Paul. Paul looked over with a cinched brow, a don’t-do-it look. Quietly, John started to giggle. He leaned in and swept at his lash with the brush. His laughter grew as his already long lashes flared and darkened. 

Ringo was watching, bemused. “Well, isn’t that a pretty woman,” he laughed. “What’s your name, honey?” 

“Bertie,” John grumbled in the deepest baritone possible. “Bertie Grubble.” He whipped his head to the boys dramatically and smiled stupidly. “Want a free drink, boys?” 

The laughter was deafening. George was clutching his side and leaning over a chair for balance. No sound came out when Paul laughed. Ringo bit his fist to keep from losing it. John looked back at the mirror and fluttered his eyes suggestively. “Cor, that’s fucking mad, they’re huge now.” He looked confused at Paul. “Does my wife even have eyelashes, or is it all this?” 

“You don’t see her with the makeup off?” Ringo asked. 

“No, I do, I just never see her take it off or put it on, so I don’t even know what the hell she has on,” he laughed. He stared at Ringo and nodded once. “You see Mo put on that black stuff around the corner of her eye?” 

“Yeah, we’re late to dinner everyday because of the fuckin’ wings,” Ringo said, “but she looks great, so. . .” 

“Do that to me,” John said. He pulled a chair around and sat in it backwards, arms laid languidly over the back. He fluttered his eyelashes once more. “Pretty please?” He begged. 

Ringo grinned and dragged his chair over to John. They started arguing about which container was the black paint - “no this one, with all the colors,” “no, this goes on the eyelid or something, it’s this one.” Finally, they settled on a small round container with the tiniest brush and Ringo went to work. 

“I don’t think–” George began. 

“Shuddup,” Paul said, “I wanna see Brian have a fit.” 

“Mmh,” George hummed. He eyed a little sheet of colors and a brush. “Well, we can’t go out there looking all different. We wouldn’t be the Beatles, y’know?” 

Paul broke out into a mad grin. “You’re right,” he said. He reached over and snatched the mascara tube from John’s hand. John gave up no fight, instead putting on his best evil laugh. 

“Shut the fuck up, all of you,” Ringo said, “I’m trying to focus here!”

“Jesus Christ, stop pulling on my eye,” John griped. 

“I have to – it’s what Mo does, I saw it!” Ringo laughed. He placed his thumb against the outer corner of John’s eye and pushed until John’s eye was a little cat's-eye slit. He swiped in from the outside with the brush, thick with liner. John’s shoulder shook with laughter and Ringo kicked his shins. George dipped a finger in some sort of paint square and rubbed glittery blue eyeshadow in his lid. 

“Were you fucking raised in a barn, get over here,” Paul exclaimed, pulling at George’s shoulder. He got a comically large brush, dusted it heavily, and patted at George’s eyes as he laughed hysterically. The glitter streamed down his nose as it rained down on him. 

“Woah!” John shouted. Paul and George turned around and almost did a double take. It was possible that Ringo needed to quit his day job and start doing this; John had perfect, fat triangles around the corners of his eye and thick black lines just above his lashes. He almost did a double-take in the mirror and couldn’t stop smiling. “Holy shit, Rich, I look like a fuckin’ bird.” He shook his head, and it snapped back to Paul. He brandished a puffy brush and a large square container of blush at him. “Yer turn, fancy pants.” 

“No thank you, I’m a natural girl,” he giggled, backing away. George stuck his leg out and Paul barely caught himself on a chair and John left almost clear over Ringo and stuck the brush into his face. They were both screaming with laughter as John swiped the brush over his cheeks and all up and down the bridge of his nose. 

“Oy, looks like you’ve been hittin’ the bottle a little too much,” John said, continuing his attack, “get a grip, son, what will your children think?” 

Paul wrestled the brush and palette out of John’s hands, threw them, and started pinching his cheeks. “Classy girls don’t wear blush,” he said over John’s giggling protests of pain, “they just pinch!”

“Fuck you, McCartney, I’m a whore and you know it.” The room was incredibly loud at this point and Neil, hearing the ruckus from the cantina next door, strolled over. 

“What the hell is–” he said, and promptly hit the floor laughing. Four beautiful, painted faces swiveled over and grinned at him. John had taken the liberty of pulling out a Chinese fan and unfurled it dramatically as Neil rolled clutching his stomach. 

“Who’s this tall drink of water,” George said in a husky burlesque voice. “I’d like to take a sip.” 

“Help a lady with her close up, would you?” Paul said in a squeaky Southern Belle character. He extended his hand to Neil and helped him up. Soon after, he shoved a camera in his hand and the other four gathered round, barely containing their giggles in time for a photo. Brian, refreshed and talking about the set, walked in at just the right time. 

He stopped and stared. “Well, fuck me,” he exclaimed. 

The Beatles were banned from doing their own makeup from that point on.


End file.
